


Bronwe athan Harthad

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-14
Updated: 2002-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo POV, in Ithilien (during quest). Frodo struggles against the Ring, Sam helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bronwe athan Harthad

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is logical but Mordor!Frodo wasn't . . . finally realised I needed to set it in Ithilien, but with the same emotion . . .thankyou to Sarz, VB, Majenta and Epona for inspiration.

I'm aware first of a sharp pain, caught low in my throat as if I've swallowed something sharp. Gradually more things emerge; the gritty scrape of earth below my palm and under my fingernails as I come to realise that my left hand is gripping the earth hard and my wrist aches because my left arm is . . . Trembling, trembling into a dull ache at my shoulder as it holds me up. Holds me up?

Sound rushes back then, the grating harshness of my own breath and the heady hum of the tainted vegetation around us. A soft whimper.

I look up, and it feels I've shrunk inside my skin, for it's as if the movement is controlled from somewhere remote, deep inside . . . And oh, it's so hard, so hard to make that simple movement because something is pulling me down, pulling me down as if the earth is tied round my neck and the moon is trying to pull me up . . .

But there's no moon. Dim twilight presses in on us and my mind spins - surely the sun can't have set yet? I shake my head, and the whirring sparks resolve themselves into eager pinpricks of light, stars dotting the liquid blue of the sky. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus, and then I see you . . .

You're there Sam, right there before me, still and watching me as always, and yet something doesn't seem right. I struggle to frown, reaching up from inside myself, and my face aches. I'm looking up at you, and this fact coupled with the spreading ache of joints in my knees and the quivering of muscles at my calves tells me I'm crouching, low on the ground, and yet that's not it, it's . . .

There's a distance between us, no more than a yard or so, but your stance, the thrumming tightness of your limbs, your chest, heaving in distress, tells me otherwise . . .

_Sam . . . Sam?_

You must see something in my numb gaze, in the way my mouth falls open and gapes as if I'm trying to retch up the words, for you drop heavily to your knees. The movement brings you closer to me and unsettles a limp lock of dirty hair from where it was pushed back from your face; it curls onto your forehead and tickles at your eyelashes. I start to shake suddenly, inexplicably, and a dull tense ache of pain trembles up my spine and grips at my shoulders, my right arm, as I shift to move my hand to brush away the offending lock, but -

Oh. _Oh . . ._

I can't breathe now. All my joints have locked, muscles seized, and the pain at the base of my throat redoubles as I realise its source . . . And I can't define which hurts more, the look in your eyes or the sting of scraped skin at my throat, the burn and throb of a thick gold band in my fist.

And I can't . . . I _can't --_

And your arms catch me as the earth no longer supports me; as I pitch forward because my limbs no longer locked now but liquid, liquid and shaken by wave upon wave of violent movement that you trap in the band of your arms, so bruisingly tight. And I am finally able to make a noise, crushing my face into your shoulder as it emerges from me before I can even gasp for breath, and I can't even recognise it myself though it's been wrenched from the deepest part of me . . .

And you answer it with a sob of your own, pulling me somehow closer and moving, rocking at odds with the shaking of my body that won't stop, won't stop, can't stop, never stop . . .

And oh, _oh_ I couldn't - I couldn't - I _can't,_ but _Sam_ \--

And something else jolts through me as you move again, something painfully familiar in its screeching alarm . . . Not again . . . Not _again_ . . . And it grips my body into a rictus as your hand closes around the wrist of my right hand; the touch burns me, burns me, burns me in sudden desperation but -

You push forward, driving through the distance recreated by my sudden recoiling, and crush your lips to mine, open and insistent. Your grip tightens as you swallow another desperate sound of mine, and it's not until my fingers relax and fall open that you withdraw again. The loss of that, Sam, the loss of that burning . . .

You press your mouth to my palm, softly, and the tearing pants of my breath subside a little, the darkness before my eyes receding as if I'm pushing through a black fog to see . . . Tears on your face, Sam, tears moist and cool on my palm stinging a throbbing circle where It has scorched my flesh . . .

And my heart breaks anew and I can't, I can't, I _can't do this_ any more and I must have made another noise because you look up at me now, your eyes gleaming and dark in the starlight, and your hand seeks my other wrist, grips it tightly and you press my palms together, kissing my wrists, my hands, my fingers as you press me back into the earth.

And it's awkward for a moment as my legs remain folded and you've pressed my shoulders down, but when I arch a little to free them you settle atop me as though that was how you intended it. The Ring slides loudly on its chain as you settle me to the earth, burning a strip along the side of my neck. Hands still trapped between our chests, you lick away the chain now closely banding my throat, and I can't feel Its touch at all when I arch my head back and press into your mouth.

And my mouth is open for the taking when you finally free your hands to frame my face. A shock shivers through me as you slide your body up to lower your mouth to mine, once more open and insistent as you explore my teeth, cheeks, tongue - firmly, as if you are reassuring *me* of their existence . . . And Sam, -- _oh_ \-- how could I help but cry out into that heat when I felt your hand - skin rough and work-hardened - slip into my shirt, the feel of it almost painful as it slides over my hypersensitive skin to settle atop and press against my heart.

And that . . . oh, _that_ . . .

I'm too large for my skin now, no longer retreating inwards but struggling to escape from these corporeal confines at the feeling - unbearable but necessary - of your hand, your mouth, your *body* pressed against mine. And I can't, I _can't_ as you settle between my legs, hips pressed firmly against mine as your mouth once again descends to my throat and I'm left dizzy and gasping.

Your lips are assured on my neck, seeking out corners of pleasure with the tip of your tongue, then kiss down softly to the hollow of my throat where my heartbeat pounds frantically; you lap there briefly. And I'm struggling again and writhing against you as you methodically unbutton my clothing and follow the path with your mouth; my hands gripping claw-like at your back, your shoulders, your head as you lock your arms firmly around my hips and lift me up a little; taking me into your mouth so I arch and then . . . Then and falling, falling again back into myself, falling deep into a warmer darkness and my voice is distant and screaming --

_"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . ."_

* * *

Because I can't. I can't. I can't get up again from where I'm lying, limp and drained, pinned beneath you still as you sleep. I can't, I _can't,_ and I wonder if, after a time, the curled strands of flowering plants will coil their vines around us and cover our bodies like they cover the trees here, sleeping endless and never waking.

I hope they will cover you, at least; for I am sure they would recoil and shrivel away from me, scorched and burned. But they would bloom for you.


End file.
